


Never The Same

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He may not have died, but he was never the same man afterwards."</p><p>Eight 100-word vignettes illustrating how Sherlock was never the same, after the Fall.</p><p>Companion series to my "Road to Home" collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Saudade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/775459) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



> If you have not read my series, "Road to Home," you will need to know that: During the time after faking his death, Sherlock briefly struck up a friendship with a girl with an Autism Spectrum Disorder. He was later kidnapped and held in a small room for an extended period of time.
> 
> Both these points are relevant to the "Never The Same" collection.
> 
> Enjoy!

“It was the girlfriend, did it.” Lestrade looked apologetic. “Actually.”

“What girlfriend?” Sherlock snarled.

“The live-in girlfriend of the woman you said was the murderer.”

“Well,” John offered. “You got as far as the bedroom, anyway. Just pointed to the wrong side of the bed.” He tried to smile.

Sherlock tented his fingers against his chin, closed his eyes.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” John prompted quietly. “Are you breathing? You’re not breathing.”

Lestrade was practically squirming. “S’alright, mate. You’ll get the next one.”

Sherlock stormed out; the swirl of his coat blew the file off Lestrade’s desk.

“Translation: Fuck right off, mate.”


	2. Copycat

“This all seems really familiar to me.” Donovan’s forehead was deeply creased.

“Shh.”

“Those box-cutter murders  a couple years ago?”

“Shh!”

“That bloke used to stuff the wounds with something—some plant. Was it lavender?”

John said under his breath, “It was heather.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Copycat, maybe?”

Donovan’s new approach was to pretend Sherlock wasn’t there; he usually did the same. Sherlock crouched down, peered through his magnifier. He swiped two fingertips along the throat, sniffed them.

John leaned near Sherlock’s face. “Heather?”

Something flickered across Sherlock’s face that made John want to hold him.

Sherlock said, “I don’t know.”


	3. Reeling

As they reeled around the corner, John caught a glimpse of That Look on Sherlock’s face: eyes full of determination, mouth open slightly, breathing heavy with exertion. Slight smile, though, tugging up the corners. He was having fun. He was about to win.

The man they were chasing ducked through the back door of an abandoned shop. Sherlock bolted in. John burst through, but in two steps he ran straight into the back of Sherlock, stopped in front of the open door to a small storeroom.

“I can’t,” he said, eyes brimming. “I can’t go in a room like that.”


	4. Letters

“Think! Who sends letters anymore?” Sherlock challenged, pacing the living room. John, in his chair, with the newspaper.

“Grannies and aunties,” John offered. “Bill collectors.”

“Really, though,” Sherlock scolded, frowning.

“Fans? Fan letters?” a familiar tingle at the back of John’s neck told him he was either about to say the right thing, or get screamed at for being a dullard. “Sometimes we got letters from school kids, with care packages. In Afghanistan.”

Sherlock stopped pacing, gazed out the window. He stood stroking and petting his left hand with his right, and didn’t say anything for a very long time.


	5. Evidence

“This sounds interesting,” John offered, reading from an email open on his laptop. “Guy says he’s been tracking the movements of a neighbor of his he’s pretty well convinced is DB Cooper.”

Sherlock opened the refrigerator, ducked his head, searched.

“He’s attached some of his logs and some things he’s written up—clues and evidence and all that stuff you generally seem so fond of.” John leaned back in his chair, raised his voice a bit. “I know I’m no expert, but some of it’s pretty convincing.”

Sherlock stood, chugged chardonnay straight from the bottle.

“I’m taking the week off.”


	6. 22

“What are you doing reading Lily Allen lyrics?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I heard something,” he said archly.

“Ha ha, Sherlock Holmes at work, stand clear of the genius, everyone,” Donna teased. She tapped one manicured finger on the handwritten notes spread out on the table in front of him. “These are song lyrics.” She started to shuffle Sherlock’s papers, which made him exhale huffily through his nose at her. “This one’s _22_. _Not Fair_. _Our Time_. The Case of the Sad Chav Girl, is it?”

Sherlock snatched up the lot of it and chucked it in the bin.


	7. Steady

Sherlock: crumpled on the pavement, covering his bowed head with his arms, shaking violently, sobbing, snot running, tears streaming from screwed-shut eyes.

John: on one knee beside him, arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, holding tight, gathering him close. His other arm extended, aiming his gun, steady as a rock.

“No,” he said, and never before had the word sounded so like a death threat.

Distantly: sirens blaring, screeching tires coming too fast around corners. Closer: static-distorted voices through walkie-talkies.

“Drop the weapon!”

An attempt to run, a takedown.

“John Watson, drop your weapon.”

“No.” He kissed Sherlock’s trembling shoulder. “Not yet.”


	8. Trafficking

“There’s videotape from the shop she left with this fella-- “ the father offered.

“John,” Sherlock pleaded.

“Just hear them out.”

“Boring.”

“What?” The mother looked anguished.

“Lonely suburban girl, public web profile. Pimp romances her. She meets up with him; he drives her five counties away and turns her out. Above him, lowest-tier gangsters, then big-time gangsters, then Russian mafia. It never ends, it can’t be solved, it’s boring. I don’t do trafficking cases.”

The father again. “She couldn’t have known not to trust him, but; our daughter’s on the autism spectrum.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up.

“I’ll take the case.”


End file.
